Quality of Mercy
by Alan Strauss
Summary: A former contract killer turned family man receives a special vistor on Christmas Eve...and it isn't Santa.


-1The Quality of Mercy

by Alan Strauss

_When mobsters slew his family, Frank Castle vowed to spend the rest of his life avenging them. Trained as a Marine and equipped with state-of-the-art weapons, he now wages a one-man war against crime as the Punisher._

Red and silver, silver and red…

It was 1973. December. Frank Castle was standing in Herald Square on 34th Street, gazing at the display windows in Macy's Department store. They were done up for the Christmas season, as they were every year, and the one in front of him had been labeled: The Spirit of Christmas. Behind the glass a group of dolls held hands in a circle, gathered under a banner that read: Peace on Earth, Good Will Towards Men.

"Are you even listening to me?"

Frank looked up. "Of course."

"Really? Okay, then what did I just say to you?"

"You said you're thinking about going with red and silver this year. For the decorations."

Maria, his wife, stared back at him and then laughed. It was warm, cheerful laughter. "Okay," she allowed, "maybe you were listening that time. But you could try to show a little more interest."

He smiled half-heartedly. "Sorry."

She reached up to adjust his cap, an ugly brown-blue knit he absolutely hated but wore because she bought it for him. "I know you think it's all silly, worrying about the decorations and all the other little details."

"No," he said, "I don't…"

"But it's not. You get so wrapped up in that job of yours sometimes, in all that ugliness, you forget this is real too. The little things are just as important Frank."

"I know," Frank said, smiling again. "Did you see the display?" he asked, motioning at the window. "It's nice isn't it?"

Maria laughed, seeing he was in one of his weird moods. "It is. I just hope Sandy was right about that sale. Frank, Jr. could really use some new sweaters…."

Christmas. 1973.

Ancient history.

ooo

Now.

Bocan Hills was a quiet little suburb on the outskirts of Dupres. It had a small town atmosphere, with its two-story houses, neat lawns, and freshly shoveled driveways. The sort of middle-class community that was rapidly disappearing from the mid-west.

It was pleasant, thought Frank Castle, as he sat in his rental car. He was parked on the curb, across the street from the Johnson family residence. There were a number of other cars around him--the block was peppered with family get-togethers and Christmas Eve parties--so he didn't look too suspicious. The Johnsons themselves had quite a few guests.

He had been watching them come and go all night long.

The house looked pretty much like the rest of the houses on this street. A two-story pre-fab with white aluminum siding and a two-car garage. Out back was a swing set, caked with ice from the recent snow, and in front sat a plastic manger with glowing wisemen. Red and white lights dangled from the eaves.

It had been three hours now. Frank had sat and observed. He wasn't feeling bored or impatient--he was use to this, he was working--but had started to think tonight wasn't going to be the night. There were simply too many people. He couldn't work in these conditions.

He was reaching for the keys in the ignition when a motion at the Johnsons' front door caught his eye. Someone was coming out, carrying two plastic garbage bags in his hands. Stopping a moment to pull on his boots, he slogged down the driveway, carrying them out to the plastic cans.

Frank checked his watch. It was nine forty five. Christmas, it seemed, had come early.

ooo

The man looked different then his photograph, but that was no surprise. It was over a decade old. His face was fatter, his hair thinner, and Frank thought he detected the hint of a pot belly under his parka.

He was still packing away the garbage when Frank came up behind him. It had started to snow.

"Vito Delarosa?"

The man froze, his back going stiff as he let the last bag slip from his fingers.

"Ah, I think you got the wrong guy, buddy," he said, putting a little too much friendliness in his voice. "Maybe I can help you find him. He live around here?"

"He lives in this house."

The man turned around slowly to look at him. He was a large man, the same height as Frank, and when he looked at him, he looked him straight in the eye. The eyes sealed it for Frank, if any more proof was needed.

"Look, I don't who you are, but my name's Neil Johnson."

"Your name is Vito Delarosa," Frank answered coolly, his hand slipping into his coat pocket.

"Wait," the man said, suddenly alarmed, "not here, for God's sake! My family's watching."

Frank glanced from Vito to the bay window where he could see the dark shape of figures standing, one of them no taller then a couple feet tall. Children. Although Frank couldn't see inside, with all the porch lights in the neighborhood, everything going on out here would be crystal clear to anyone watching from the other side.

A scowl crossed Frank's face as he eased his finger off the trigger. He took his hand back out of his leather duster. "Get in the car," he told Vito, pointing to the rental.

The man passed one last, longing look up the driveway before doing as he was told.

It was going on ten thirty as they drove out of Bocan Hills.

ooo

Very little traffic confronted them on the ride out of town. The two men traveled in silence, the only sound in the car the rhythmic slap of the windshield wipers. Finally, Vito had had enough.

"Look," he said, his voice now calm and reasonable, "I have money. I can pay you well. You can just say you never found me…"

"I don't want money."

"Okay," he continued, trying not to be unnerved by Frank's empty expression. There was no warmth in the voice the man used, no light in his eyes. It was the cold, lifeless mask of a cipher that sat behind the wheel.

"You don't want money. Then what? I know people. Tell me what you want and I can get it."

"This is what I want."

Vito swallowed with effort and took a deep breath. There was no heater on in the car but he was sweating. "Can you at least tell me who you work for?"

"I work for Lyle Carmichael."

Vito wasn't sure he heard right. "Who?"

"James Baxter, Emma Freemont, Donald O'Patrick," said Frank. "I work for Al Reece too."

With each name Vito looked more and more sick. The color had all drained from his face and his hands clenched the seat rests. "What the fuck are you talking about?" he demanded. "Those people are dead!"

"That's right. You killed them."

Then it hit Vito. The unfamiliar face, the names of the dead, the sudden senselessness of it. He knew whose car he was in now. "Ah, Jesus. I know who you are. You're that Castle guy, aren't you?"

Frank didn't say either way, but just kept driving. They were coming to a wooded area now and theirs was the only car left on the road.

"Look, this is crazy. I'm retired. I haven't been in the business for years! I've changed."

Frank frowned, the first emotion he'd shown since Vito had entered the car. "People might change," he said, "but the past doesn't. Twenty-five people, maybe more, are dead because a man named Vito Delarosa once saw fit to kill them. That hasn't changed."

That was a long time ago. Over a decade now. Ages as far as Vito was concerned. He'd been paid well to do that sort of work back then and had been very good at it. Twenty-five people, he knew, was a lowball estimate at best.

"Please," he said, trying to catch Frank's eye, but failing. "I have a family now. Have some fucking mercy would you?"

The car was slowing down and Frank pulled off to the site of the road. He put it into park then finally glanced over at Vito.

"Did you?"

Vito thought about begging, pleading, making some desperate attempt to overpower him. All of them had about the same chance of success--none whatsoever. He took another breath. "Okay," he said, his voice surprisingly steady, "Okay. But not now. Think of my kids. It's fucking Christmas."

Frank touched a button and the power locks opened. "Get out of the car."

"Are you even listening to me?"

Frank reached across the seat to push open the passenger door and then grabbed Vito by the shoulder of his coat, shoving him out of the sedan. He landed on his side, receiving a face full of mud and snow. By the time he scrambled back to his feet, Frank was already standing next to him.

"For God's sake," he said, "you're going to kill their father on Christmas? Can you imagine what that's going to do them? Aren't you fucking human at all?"

Frank just stared down at him, his face as cold and expressionless as it'd been from the start. Still he hadn't killed him yet, and that gave Vito courage enough to keep going.

"Just give me a few days," he reasoned. "I've got some money hidden away. I can make things all right with them. My wife, my kids, they don't know anything about what I did, let me just take care of them first. Then we can do whatever it is we've got to do."

Frank continued to stare.

"It's Christmas…"

And it was. The dashboard clock in the car now read five past midnight.

Frank leaned forward a fraction and Vito winced, expecting a bullet to follow. It didn't.

"You have until the first of next month."

Vito opened his eyes. His mind raced. Had he heard right? Was he dead and just dreaming? No, he saw, he was still here, kneeling in the winter slush along some deserted highway. "What?"

"You have until the first of next month."

"New Years Day? You're going to kill me on another holiday?

A normal man might have smirked there or changed his mind altogether. Frank did neither. "You have," he amended, "until the second of next month."

Vito watched numbly as the man walked back around the car and got in the driver's seat. "Where will I find you?"

"You won't. I'll find you." Frank began to shut the door, then paused, adding, "Don't run."

The car sped off, leaving Vito kneeling on the curb. It was two hours before he saw another one, and managed to flag down a ride home. He had seven days left.

ooo

They were hardest seven he'd ever lived.

Christmas day came and went. The unwrapping, the family dinner, the cleanup--he weathered through it all, putting on his best face. He had already decided he couldn't tell them. There would be too much explaining involved.

He simply pretended everything was normal. He kissed his children good night while saying his own private goodbyes, made love to his wife, who knew something was wrong but couldn't say what. He settled everything up and made certain there were no loose ends. A key to a safe deposit box stuffed with cash was left in the front drawer of his office desk.

Six days later, he was sitting in a bar in Costa Rica. He hadn't seen the man across from him in over twenty years.

"Vito, you're looking good. Living well?"

"Tolerably."

The man smiled and stirred his drink. He had ordered of pair a sweet cocktails with little umbrellas in them. Vito hadn't touched his.

"I was surprised when I heard you were looking for me. I thought you were done with the business."

"I am," Vito said.

The man nodded. "So…"

"So you remember how you once said if I ever needed help, I could come to you?"

"You did a lot of things for us back them," the man said, casually. "Helpful things. We don't forget."

"Well, I have a problem now. Someone wants me dead."

"Just one?" The man smiled. "This doesn't sound like the Vito I knew. For you, one is simple."

"Not this one."

He raised a brow. "Why so special?"

"This one is Frank Castle."

The man tried to hide his reaction but Vito saw it. He had blanched at the name, pulling back from the table an inch or two. The smile had left his face for good.

"You've heard of him."

A careful nod. "Perhaps in passing…"

"And?"

"And, what we hear is not so good. What help were you wanting? Some money perhaps?"

Vito could hear, as well as the see, his friend's discomfort. He pushed on. "I need someplace to hide or someone who can take care of him."

The man frowned and looked down into his drink. "This is an interesting request…"

"You said you would help."

The man swiped a thick hand over his chin, wiping away the sweat. It was warm in the cantina. He began to shake his head. "Yes, well, money we can do. Guns, whatever, but this is…difficult."

"Are saying you won't help me then?"

"You must understand," he replied, still wagging his head, already getting up from his chair. He had the look of man warned in advance that the theatre was on fire and who hoped to beat the stampede. "This Castle is bad for business. Just bad for business. You must understand that?"

Vito said nothing. He looked up at his old business partner and friend, feeling a numbness come over him.

"Are you certain you have the name right though…?"

"Yes."

His friend frowned, shook his head again, and reached over to quickly pat his hand. His palm felt clammy against Vito's skin. "You'll figure out something, I bet," he said, his voice hollow, "You were always smart like that." He then put on a wan smile, left a wad of hundreds on the table, and walked briskly out.

Vito continued to sit in the cantina for several more hours after that, staring at the wall, lost in his thoughts. Finally the waiter came with the check, politely informing him that he needed to make a purchase or free up the table. Vito mumbled something and took the bill.

Clipped to it was a hand scrawled note. It read: "Tomorrow. 2:00 PM." and gave directions underneath. Vito didn't have to ask the waiter who'd paid him to put that there. He knew.

Crinkling the note into a ball, he dropped it into the ashtray and walked back to his hotel.

ooo

Vito Delarosa arrived at the chosen spot on time. It was a dirt crossroads several miles outside town. On each side of the road thick banana fields grew in rows. The plants looked like squat trees dotted with bright blue bags, an aid farmers used to cover the fruit and keep away parasites. There was no sign of life beyond the buzz of insects.

The taxi cab driver asked, in English, whether Vito wanted him to wait. He said no and stepped outside.

Frank was waiting for him.

"Well," Vito said, "here I am."

"You ran."

"Surprised?"

Frank made no comment on that. Instead, he asked, "Did you take care of what you said?"

Vito nodded.

"Yeah. It's done."

"Good."

A swarm of fruit flies had began to gather around Vito head but he felt no need to wave them off. "Mind if I smoke?"

"Go ahead."

Frank watched as Vito reached towards his back pocket and pulled the trigger. The sawed-off shotgun knocked its target off his feet and spun him to the right. He landed on his side, without so much as a groan. Frank lowered the shotgun and counted to ten, waiting for any sign of movement as he fingered the sidearm in the waistband of his pants.

When he finally reached ten, he stopped and walked over to Vito. The man wasn't dead but his breathing was ragged. His shirt was already stained dark red.

Frank ejected the shells, and they landed a few inches from Vito's head.

"You son of a bitch," he muttered, trying to shift his position. He couldn't. "Son of a bitch." He took a deep breath and let it out. Something warm and dark dribbled off his chin. "Doesn't hurt as bad as I thought it would…"

Frank kneeled down on his haunches as the man talked, merely waiting.

"You know," Vito said, barely audible, "that this will be you someday too? All the people you've killed, the fathers and grandfathers and sons. The widows and orphans. Some of them are going to come looking for you someday. People who haven't done anything, broken any law, people who just want to kill you. What's going to happen then?"

"I suspect," Frank said simply, loading two more shells, "that justice will be served. As it should be."

Vito tried to move again and his body convulsed with pain. He tried to go on speaking but his throat filled with blood and he wound up choking. Finally, he managed to get out, "Fucking end it already…"

Frank stood up, extended his arm and pulled both triggers. When the echo died off, he ejected the shells again and slipped the weapon back in its shoulder holster. He had already started to leave when something made him pause. Turning back to the body, he placed his boot against Vito's shoulder and shoved him over.

He had expected Vito to be holding a gun. That's what he would have gone for when he reached behind his back. Frank was wrong though. A silver cigarette case was clutched in his hand.

Frank leaned down and picked it up. An embossed monogram on the front read: "To A Loving Husband and Father" and then the date, now seven days past.

Frank ran his thumb over the letters, smearing the blood.

Silver and red, red and silver…


End file.
